


Vignette in Red and White

by mangoeclipse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Softcore Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoeclipse/pseuds/mangoeclipse
Summary: An overview of Karkat and Dave's trauma, and their healing process as they fall in love.You should check out this postby hummingbirdbandit on tumblrthat was a huge inspiration for this work!





	Vignette in Red and White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CassandraOOC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandraOOC/gifts).



Rose and Kanaya’s wedding changed them. 

It changed them all, those who would become known as the pantheon of gods on Earth C; but to Karkat Vantas and Dave Strider the wedding was a realization. 

They were safe. The world was theirs. Vulnerability was not a flaw here.

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas, you’re 5 sweeps old and already fear the color that runs in your veins. Some mutations are acceptable, some are even  _ valued _ by the Empire.  Hyper-strength, telekinesis, mind control, they have their purpose. They have their place. Your mutation doesn’t. Your’s is the mark of the pariah, the treasonist, the Sufferer, a biological bounty placed on your head from the moment you hatched. The moment you hatched, life took a fat shit on you, is what you’ve come to accept. Crabdad is a good lusus, he keeps you fed, keeps you safe from what few prying, curious eyes of the trolls live nearby. He keeps you undetected, through his care you are uncared about. The foodstuffs are high in fats and sugars, you’re plumper than any of the lowbloods nearby; not that they notice or care. They’ve got their own shit to deal with, you’re sure. Crabdad wants you sturdy, wants you strong. He means well, but you know already that it won’t matter. Your life is on a timer, the moment your irises begin to fill in you figure, “IT’S OVER, IT’S FUCKING OVER. I WON’T EVEN HAVE TO LEAVE THE HIVE,  _ THEY’LL _ JUST KNOW. THE CULLING DRONES WILL BE AT THE DOOR TO HAUL MY SORRY CARCASS AWAY THE MOMENT IT HAPPENS.” It’s frightening, looking in the mirror every night, watching your eyes waiting for the night they start to gain the blasphemous color that poisons your body. Powdered hollow-rounds are an empty comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

  
  
  


Your name is Dave Strider, you’re 12 years old and scared of your own home. It’s normal. It has to be normal, doesn’t it? Bro is a normal guy, this is normal. Everyone has weird shit don’t they? John’s dad and his cakes, Rose’s mom and her drinking, it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s what you reason when you lock yourself in your room and burrow beneath your covers, the one place that isn’t booby trapped with fucking smuppets or swords. Your flinch at the sound of grating metal. He’s setting something up for another webcam, will you be caught in the crossfire of muppet ass and japanese swords? Probably. It’s normal. Bro doesn’t talk about it when you get hurt. Just says you’ll be fine, stitches you up,  _ you’re fine _ ; muppet ass and swords and tweenager screams make the dough he says. He doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t say “I love you.” You wonder sometimes if that’s normal it has to be, right? You’d ask John, but that’s fucking stupid. You’re not about to pester your best friend out of the blue asking “Does your dad ever tell you he loves you?” What kind of fucking creep does that. Parents in movies say ‘I love you.’ You figure that’s something Hollywood exaggerated or flat out made up, like high school drama and god and hobbits or whatever the hell else they manage to concoct. The metal clanging makes you shiver and your teeth chatter; you’re cold, even under the blankets. He’s really going ham out there with whatever SAW knockoff he’s making. “Buck up little man, you’ll never make it in this business,” he murmurs.

Cakes and alcohol seem preferable to everything Bro does. Cakes and alcohol are a walk in the park; Rose doesn’t get fetish puppets flung at her when she opens the fridge. John doesn’t get swords shooting out of the walls at him like he’s old Indie in the Temple of Fucking Doom. But it’s fine. This is normal. You’re fine.

  
  


7 sweeps. The Empire is gone, everything is gone; you’re one of the last and least of your kind on a chunk of rock flying through space like the “the fucking Enterprise in this bitch”, to quote Dave. The lightmares are worse, though the themes are still the same. Blood, screaming, not being fast enough to get away from that which is breathing death onto your heels. The monsters might have faces now, the bodies might have names, but nothing has changed. Nobody cares about the blasphemy in your blood, Vriska makes snide remarks but that’s just…..Vriska. Begrudgingly, you’re grateful that no one has really cared that much, but it’s hard to brush it away when it’s you whose sleep is plagued by distorted, clashing images of bloody, broken bodies and hunters that are after the candy red bounty you carry. They don’t have visions of your beaten, desecrated, mutant body hung up like a fucking festival banner for the public to laugh and gawk at, nudge each other and say “GET A LOAD OF THAT BASTARD! LOOK AT THE ROLLS, LOOK AT THE SCARS, LOOK AT THE  _ RED! _ ” hiding behind their eyes. 

Strider has lightmares too though (or as you’ve learned humans call them, ‘nightmares’), the two of you share a solidarity in that. He wouldn’t talk about them, wouldn’t admit to them for the longest time, until he absent mindedly mentioned blood and grating metal. Blood and metal, the two monsters in your dreams. It brought the two of you closer. Not world changing, not climatically closer. But closer, quietly. The two of you shared a vice, a fear, a monster. The similarities are discovered slowly, some more apparent than others. He never shows his eyes. You won’t be caught dead without a good 80% of your body covered.  _ The less drones see the less likely they are to know. _ His smile is crooked, mirroring yours, leaning to the opposite side. The freckles on his neck and arms are similar to yours, to the ones dappling your shoulders and thighs. Every now and again you glimpse faded, white scars on his wrists. Same as the silver ones that cross yours. You want to show him, but the quiet, creeping closeness between the two of you is fragile. You’re scared to break it, scared he’ll laugh and brush off the attempt and friendly intimacy the way he parries everything.  _ What is it that hunts him _ ? You wonder.

 

Jesus fucking yellow penguins. Fifteen year olds are usually out skateboarding, acting like little punks and having a regular hay-day while old man Jenkins shakes his fist and yells at them to get off his tricked out lawn, aren’t they? But instead you’re hurtling through space with your sister, one of the last humans left alive in the universe like the fucking Starship Enterprise in this bitch. Sure, why not. Life has already been so goddamn weird, this might as well happen. At the very least, at the very least the smuppets are gone, and so is he. You feel sick for being so glad to be rid of Bro, he took care of you, kept a roof over your head, but at the same time had you tangled up in all that weird puppet fetish shit.    
It was fucked. 

It was fucked and you want to feel safe but you still don’t. You still hear him, telling you to “buck up, better not cry little man”, his absence and still his overwhelming presence all mixed together. You can’t tell if the nightmares are worse or better now. A nightmare’s a nightmare, you don’t know why you keep trying to figure them out. Karkat wants to talk about them, once he finds out you have them too. 

“Dude, everyone here has nightmares, we’re all fucked up” you tell him. You tell him that, but know nobody else has dreams haunted by grating metal and muppet asses. You don’t want this to turn into fucking trauma show and tell, but you’re grateful for this newfound solidarity.  He’s a good friend, aside from the shouting, which is more times than not funny as shit; he’s gentler than you’d thought he’d be. Cuter, too. 

  
  


8 sweeps. Rose and Kanaya have paired off, and you’re happy for them. But jealous too, not of them as people but of their flush. Dave is.. Dave is timid. You are too. You’d be lying out your ass if you said you weren’t scared out of your pan of trying to romance him. He doesn’t want a mutant, why would he? Why would anyone? Maybe that’s how flush is just meant to work between the two of you: quiet, tentative, you can show some scars to each other, but not all of them. Never all of them. 

His hands are bigger than yours, you feel protected when he lets his fingers curl over yours. You count the freckles on the back of his hands and keep the number close to your blood pusher. Sometimes he lets you touch the scars on his wrists, sometimes he quietly pulls away. Sometimes he falls asleep leaning against you, an arm draped over your hip, head lolling on the dip of your side. Sometimes you find yourself purring and letting your fingers kneed his hair. It’s such a pretty pale color, ‘blonde’ he’d said it was called. It’s thinner and less coarse than yours, sometimes it feels like silk. 

You wonder if Kanaya and Rose’s courtship is a game of ‘sometimes.’ Because sometimes it doesn’t feel like the two of you are anything more than a hue confused pale, sometimes not even that. Rose makes jokes at him, and Dave seems to brush off anything besides friendship between the two of you. You want to ask him, truthfully want to pour out everything in your pan to him, but you’ve convinced yourself that’s just another way to look like a blithering crybaby jackass in front of him and everyone else. Big, fat, red spectacle, just like always. 

But you love him. You’ve accepted it, but are too scared to say it. You’ve got one hell of a hunch that he’s too scared too. Has to be something from that bastard he called “Bro”, his human lusus equivalent. He doesn’t talk about him much. He avoids the subject as much as he can. You understand, but you want to help him overcome whatever his lusus was or did. Hypocrite that you are, too frightened to show your own matesprite more than an inch of skin, too frightened to talk about the fear instilled into you from the day you hatched, the feeling of being hunted. You’re gentle and quiet together, secrets locked away in a box. 

You’ve thought about sex, you think about sex a lot, but now thinking about sex with Dave specifically, throws your pan into a frenzy. Scared, wanting, back to being scared again. What if he didn’t like what he’d see? What if he was disgusted by the scars, the pockmarks? Lights off, you would suppose. Humans can’t see well in the dark. For all you know, physical compatibility might be out of the question; though the Harlequin novels Rose lets you borrow makes it seem like that isn’t the case, you’ve gleaned enough knowledge from them to get by, you think. But you aren’t going to ask any smutty questions. You aren’t Eridan’s dancestor, for fuck’s sake. If Dave wants to pail, well you’ll just go from there, lights off, he won’t need to see anything he hasn’t already. You once thought pailing would be something extravagant, candles, music, the whole fucking nine yards. But you’re too scared for that, you realize. You want to see him, all of him, but you don’t want him to see any part of you, afraid of him showing disgust for even a second. No, it would be better that way. You could see him, his lean frame and count his freckles and feel his hands cover yours as he…. 

You shove your face into your hands. You really have been reading too many of these human novels. 

  
  


You love your…. pal. You’re scared to call Karkat your boyfriend. You don’t know why, literally nobody on the meteor is going to give a shit. Something about the word scares you though. You know it's what he is,  _ everyone _ knows something is going on between the two of you but, you’re too scared to admit it. You want to tell him you love him, but how? Bro never told you he loved you, no one did. What if Karkat doesn’t love you, though? What if it pisses him off? What if he throws one of his tantrums, but instead of it being a riot like it usually is, it’s hurtful? He’s so soft, so warm, you want to press kisses into his soft, plush gray skin over and over but, you hold back. You hear Bro’s voice in your head mocking you for being so delicate, so sappy. You aren’t over those 13 years yet. He’s still there behind your eyes. You want to tell Karkat, tell him everything and curl up against his soft, warm chest; and at the same time you don’t. You’re no hero, but this is still your war. 

  
  


Rose and Kanaya’s wedding was on the seventh day of Earth C’s existence. The afternoon was fair, the sun shining off of the two girls, the air buzzing with joy at the nightmare being over and the celebration of love. Champagne sparkled in the sun, the flutes never empty no matter how much was drunk or how much sloshed over from glasses clinking and toasting. 

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you cannot take your eyes off of Dave Strider. He’s grown into those bony shoulders of his, his lean frame handsome in the dark colored suit he wears. He’s laughing his snickering, chattery laugh at everyone and everything. You’ve never felt so in love. 

You have to tell him. Now’s the moment, if any movie has taught you anything, it’s either now or never. Not to steal Rose and Kanaya’s thunder, but this shit has been cooking for the past sweep and a half. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. You don’t even care if he doesn’t love you back in this moment, the human’s alcohol really is liquid courage like they say it is.

 

“DAVE,” you tug his cuff gently, and though you can’t see his eyes through the darkness of his sunglasses you know you have his attention. 

 

“What’s poppin boo?” He takes another sip from the flute. 

 

“I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU, ALONE.” You cut a glance over at John, entertaining everyone with some impression of something from human culture. Champagne is coming out of Roxy’s nose. They won’t mind the absence for a moment. You lead him behind the lattice, hidden from the wedding party by roses, white lilies, and creeping ivy. 

 

“You good man, what’s this secret spy meeting abou-”    
  
“I LOVE YOU, DAVE.” You cut him off. You can’t help it. Your words are out faster than you can process, running like a river babbling on and on about how you love him, you’ve loved him for so long and were too scared to say it and you’re sorry if-

Dave’s arms are around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His steely shield broken, he sobs once against your collar before pulling back and nudging away the tear escaping from the darkness of his shades. 

 

“Fuck dude, I love you too. Don’t tell me you’re sorry man, I love you.” The world feels like its fallen into place. You choke a sob, throwing yourself against him, squeezing him tightly, making him stumble backwards. 

 

“WHY DIDN’T WE SAY THIS SO MUCH SOONER?”

 

“I wanted to, but I was, ok this is gonna sound stupid as fuck but I’m gonna keep it real with you I was scared to.” 

 

“ _ YOU _  WERE SCARED?” 

 

“Yeah I, well more of Bro made it seem like,” he trails off, but you understand. Human males were held to some strange standard on Earth, as you’ve learned. You stand on tiptoe to kiss him, and he holds you close. The two of you stand behind the lattice rocking together, holding one another and listening to the joyous ruckus from the wedding party. 

  
  
  


It isn’t the first time, but it might as well be. You let Dave keep the lights on, dimmed, but still on. You’ve seen his body before, but this is the first time he’s gotten to see all of yours. He can’t get enough of you, his hands are everywhere, petting, squishing, gently tracing the scars on your legs, the pock marks on your thighs and your rump. His squeezes are gentle, loving; as he cups your chest. He kisses your neck and trails down slowly over the rolls of skin to your hip, stopping to nuzzle your thigh. You hide your face in your hands, feeling the heat in your cheeks. He’s always so gentle; you’re both so shy. Your bulge is only just barely peeking out of your sheath, you whimper as you feel Dave’s thin fingers gently brushing and coaxing him ad he leans on his elbow to nuzzle and kiss your cheeks, giggling at how you growl softly and try to hide his face.    
  
“Let me see your eyes,” he whispers. 

 

“LET ME SEE YOURS,” you say softy. He lets you take the shades from him, and you freeze in shock. 

Red. 

His eyes are  _ red _ . You match. You could cry, you feel ridiculous for wanting to cry over something so fucking trivial, but red is what you’ve come to hate about yourself. And here is the man you love the most, with the color you were taught to fear. You throw your arms around him, snuggling under his chin as he laughs, taking his hand from your creeping bulge to hold you. 

 

“You good?” 

 

“WE MATCH,” is all you can manage to purr. What he has is beautiful, and that means the red in your eyes is too. 

 

You like the human word ‘lovemaking’ for pailing, it feels sweet and romantic, you feel like it fits now more than ever. A word made specifically for you and Dave. Your legs hug his hips, usually he holds you close with his face buried in the pillow or your neck, but he keeps himself held up so you can see his eyes. His thrusts are slow and easy, and every now and again he reaches his hand down to stroke your bright red bulge and pull it away from trying to wrap around his hilt or fondle his balls. He’ll glance down, a soft grin on his face. 

 

“Pretty,” he murmured, giving your forehead a kiss. 

 

You remember how much confusion there was during the first time, he’d felt the wetness and movement of your bulge and screamed. He’d wanted to turn on the lights. You didn’t. If you started crying you hadn’t wanted him to see. 

 

You couldn’t be farther from crying right now. Well not in the same way. You want to nuzzle and kiss Dave and tell him you love him, you fucking love him so much over and over, want to hug his neck and whimper against his skin as he thrusts his strange, alien bulge into your nook. He’s warm, warm and stiff and you let out a little cry when his hips speed up, the way he murmurs ‘fuck’ under his breath and hugs you closer, burying his face in your neck. Your blood pusher is racing; you dig your nails into the lean muscles of his shoulders, hug him tighter with your thighs and push him deeper. He groans, you wail; you cum together. 

 

The two of you lay curled together, warm and satisfied wrapped in afterglow. Dave’s hands still roaming over the soft, fleshy rolls of your side, petting you and tracing your scars. 

“Thanks for, letting me see you,” he breathes, his face still flushed and sweaty. His pale face red and blotchy. You reach out and brush his cheek, purring. His flush looks warm and soft, its the same as yours. His red isn’t dangerous or bad, neither is yours. You’ve come to terms with that. You can let him see your scars.

  
  


Karkat sleeps curled against your chest, a big warm purring mass with his arms wrapped around you. You pet his thick, black hair. Dozing in and out of consciousness. You feel safe, and loved. You thought he loved you for the longest time, but now you know for sure. He can’t erase the scars from the past, from Bro and those fucking puppets, and you can’t erase the scars from his monsters either. But you can make them fade, you can make each other's pain dull, and that’s a victory. This world belongs to you, all of you. Rose and Kanaya proved that earlier in the day, the sheer gall of up and inventing weddings on Earth C. How fucking iconic. 

This was a tentative beginning, maybe one day Karkat will let you keep the lights all the way on. Maybe you’ll be able to tell him the full extent of Bro and that fucked up apartment one day. Baby steps, baby steps. Maybe he’ll stop wearing sweaters and pants pulled up to his tits, maybe he’ll start showing off his thiccness. You know it's how he hides, the way you hide behind a smirk and pair of shades. Maybe you’ll leave them off tomorrow, if it’s just you and Karkat hanging around the house. You think you’re ready for that. 

Knowing he loves you truthfully makes you feel like you’re ready for anything. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> aaa I hope you've enjoyed this Cassandra!! I hope this was soft enough, I got the vibe from your request you were looking for smut on the fluffier side! ♥ ;w;


End file.
